


one-on-one play

by youcouldmakealife



Series: between the teeth [4]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 19:15:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1110536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re here because I don’t like you?” David asks.</p>
<p>“I’m here because I want to know <i>why</i> you don’t like me,” Lourdes says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	one-on-one play

**Author's Note:**

> **one-on-one** (wnn-wn, -ôn-)  
>  adj.  
> 1\. Consisting of or being direct communication or exchange between two people: one-on-one instruction.  
>  **2\. Sports Playing directly or exclusively against a single opponent.**
> 
> Thanks to Clo!

It’s less than two weeks later that David and the Isles are back in Florida, and this time David’s less inclined to soak up the sun, less than impressed with everyone else deciding to, because they did that last time, and it made them sun stupid, left them stunned. He doesn’t say anything though, even if he wants to, because no one really takes him seriously, the rookie designation hanging over his head like it makes him immature. Even so, when he’s lingering over breakfast, half the team powering through it to get some ‘rays’, he looks over at Brouwer, who’s one of the few remaining, and the closest to David, snorting over some newspaper.

“I don’t think it’s good for our game to spend the whole day lying in the sun,” David says, and Brouwer looks up at him, raises an eyebrow.

“Chapman, if anyone needs to spend some fucking time lying in the sun, it’s you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” David demands, but Brouwer just snorts and then pointedly turns a page of the paper, and David’s not dumb enough to insist for an answer, even if he has no clue whether Brouwer just insulted him or not, though knowing Brouwer, he probably did. Knows even less what the insult actually _means_. 

*

Even if everyone spends their time getting sunburned instead of getting their head in the game, it doesn’t end up anything like their last game in Sunrise, which David is fervently grateful for. They pot a goal in the first, an ugly one that just squeaks through, and match the Panthers one for one in the second, David getting a positional tap-in stick side, getting another absolutely crushing hug from Eisler, which he accepts with good grace because it was Eisler’s pass that came to his stick.

The third’s just a back and forth mess, no one playing particularly well, the Panthers thankfully as off as the Isles, and it’s a series of turnovers and quick-whistled icings, until the Panthers pull their goalie with a minute and a half left, scrambling like they’re short-handed instead of up a man, until Farmer pulls the trigger on an empty-netter, puts them out of their misery. 

It wasn’t a pretty game, but it was a win, and it was a win against the shitty fucking Panthers, smug as shit Lourdes, who never really hit the ice at the same time as David, but whose presence David had felt in Kurmazov gritting his teeth through a hasty stitching from a high-stick (he didn’t get a double-minor despite the fact Kurmazov was clearly bleeding, which was _bullshit_ ), and in a secondary assist on the only goal to get past Knutsen.

It was a win, but David doesn’t feel the way he thinks he should, fidgety when the beat reporters come over to him, though he thinks he hides it well enough, full of excess energy humming through him, like he needs to go hit up the hotel gym after, swim laps in the overchlorinated pool, run a few kilometres until his blood stops singing. He lags behind--he doesn’t want to go back with the team, the idea of the bus making him feel claustrophobic, so says he’ll take a cab, since it’s a short ride anyway, and Kurmazov gives him a look and then shrugs it off, tells him not to go out and get in trouble, as if David _would_.

He dawdles for awhile, making sure he won’t get hauled onto the bus, playing a couple rounds of Bejeweled on his phone, the equipment managers giving him a bit of a berth, and when he leaves the arena’s ringing with silence, hollow around him, except for the fact that just down the hall, hands in his suit pockets and hair curling wetly around his ears, is _Jake fucking Lourdes_.

“Good,” Lourdes says, straightening up. “I thought I missed you or something, but Benny said you were hanging around awhile.”

David frowns. There are a bunch of questions to ask, here, number one being why the hell Lourdes is waiting around for him, but the one that comes out of his mouth is “ _Benny_?”

“Benson?” Lourdes says. “Freckles? Tiny?”

Benson is maybe one inch shorter than David, max. David scowls deeper. “I know who he _is_ ,” he snaps. “What are you doing talking to him?”

“He played with me in under-18,” Lourdes says, and he’s starting to frown as well, which is good, because maybe then he’ll leave and stop bothering David. It’s not even like he has a win to rub in, and David thinks his goal trumps a secondary assist, even if it was just a tap-in. “You know, when we won gold.”

David grits his teeth. It’s not exactly something he’s forgotten.

“Why are you here?” David asks, since Lourdes doesn’t seem inclined to actually explain what the fuck he’s doing, harrassing him, when he probably has plenty of better things to do. Maybe no girls sprawled on his lap to celebrate a win, but he’s sure someone would be willing to commiserate, especially since there are so many losses the Panthers would never be able to go out otherwise.

“Why don’t you like me?” Lourdes asks.

“What?” David asks, blank.

“That’s why I’m here,” Lourdes says. 

“You’re here because I don’t like you?” David asks.

“I’m here because I want to know _why_ you don’t like me,” Lourdes says. 

“Are you serious right now?” David asks, and Lourdes gives him a look that makes it clear that he is indeed serious about going around asking people why they don’t like him. David’s got a half-dozen responses on his tongue, but he holds back, weighs them, and they stick in his throat because each one would sound stupid, petty, if he said them out loud, would make David sound like he’s obsessing over Lourdes’ game, which he isn’t, and bitter that he isn’t as good, and he _is_ as good, and calling Lourdes dirty just makes him sound like a whiner. There’s nothing to say, and David hates him even more for that, for making David feel like he’s being mean, when he knows he isn’t, something about Lourdes pisses him off, puts his teeth on edge, and he usually double-checks his instinctive reactions but this one feels _right_. David hates him, and he can’t say why, and he needs a reason, he needs a reason he can say, needs to pull out one that’s faultless, so he steps forward, chin up so he’s looking Lourdes straight in the eye, Lourdes looking straight back, confused, impassive, pretty much no reaction at all, and David will change that, he can change that, so he takes Lourdes by his stupid fucking salmon coloured tie, the fabric slick under his fingers but just enough to hold onto, leans up to press his mouth against Lourdes’ slack lips, which are pink-bitten like always, something David’s noticed every time he’s seen him. 

Lourdes is still against him, a line of tense muscle, before he pulls back, his tie slipping through David’s fingers, hisses, “Are you nuts?”, and there’s the reason, there’s the reason to hate him, he’s going to punch David, or laugh, or use it against him, he’s going to expose himself as the shitty person David _knows_ he has to be, because he plays like an asshole, and David should feel satisfied, but his stomach drops, and all he feels is vaguely nauseous, and not just because he put the one thing he trusts no one with into the hands of someone he doesn’t trust at all. His first kiss, at least his first kiss with a guy, which is what’s important, and he does it to prove something to someone who’ll probably use it against him. Someone who doesn’t even know the meaning of fair play.

Lourdes is looking down at David, who sets his jaw and looks right back up at him, looks him in the eye, because if Lourdes is going to hit him he wants to know it’s coming. “There are people everywhere,” Lourdes says, then, “Shit, I’m crashing at Goldman’s right now, I can tell him to head to his girlfriend’s?” 

“What?” David asks, blank.

“Like, if you want to come over,” Lourdes says, and then, sort of sheepish, “I mean, if you want to, I don’t want to assume.”

“What?” David repeats, voice cracking over the word. 

“Do you want to?” Lourdes asks. His cheeks are kind of pink. David would think he was blushing, but that’s fucking stupid.

“I--” David says, doesn’t think he can say ‘what’ again, though he wants to, because Lourdes isn’t making any _sense_ , David didn’t think his action through, maybe, not properly, but he sure as hell wasn’t expecting Lourdes to invite him _over_ , and if he wanted to beat the shit out of David for it he could just do it right here, there are people, maybe, and people close enough to come if David called out, but he wouldn’t, he’d take it and he’d hold that pain and he’d let it fester. There’s no reason to invite him over except the obvious one, and that’s almost too absurd to be true. “Okay,” he says, because he refuses to be the kind of person to start things he doesn’t finish, or to balk at something that Lourdes doesn’t. If this is Lourdes’ sick idea of gay chicken or something, well, David’s going to be the one to win it, because he’s never chickened out of anything he wanted to do, and he can admit that, privately, he can admit that he wants this, not _Lourdes_ , necessarily, though he’s objectively good looking, pink lips and a smile that looks bashful even if that’s a lie, eyes somewhere between gold and green, some colour David’s never seen before, because of course he’s got to be unique there too. But a guy, and if there’s one thing good about Lourdes, it’s that he has just as much as David to lose. 

If it’s gay chicken, Lourdes is intent on playing it, gets in a cab with him because apparently Goldman was his ride, and took his car right with him with his girlfriend’s. Lourdes tips his phone screen to show David, like he needs evidence, a text from ‘Goldie’ that just reads ‘ya. lol u go man’, which implies--whatever the fuck this is, probably, and David feels colour rise in his cheeks when he reads it, can’t meet Lourdes’ eyes or react much to the bullshit small talk he’s trying, stuff about Benson, who David doesn’t really know that well, since he just got called up last month, and seemed cool enough, though maybe David should reconsider his opinion. Stuff about the weather in Florida, which is warm, and in New York, which is cold, like that’s anything new, everything but hockey or why David’s not going back to his hotel like he should, is sitting in the backseat of a cab with a guy he can’t stand, taking up as little space as possible, because Lourdes is all limbs, knee nearly nudging David’s even though David’s hunched into himself. David can feel the heat coming off him even through his suit pants, tailored tight over the spread of his thighs, feel the heat still in his cheeks, still feel Lourdes’ mouth against his, a slightly wet press, caught off guard, and he bites his bottom lip until all he feels is the sting of that.

They stop in front of a fairly non-descript apartment building, and Lourdes reaches for his wallet, which David wants to beat him to until he realises, mortified, that he doesn’t have cash on him and his credit card’s still sitting in front of his computer at home from when he stayed up too late the night before he left, lured in by Amazon. Lourdes pays, and then they’re stranded outside there, more or less, Lourdes eyeing him, David trying to avoid his eyes, until Lourdes sighs, unnecessarily theatrically, and heads into the building, David following him like a duckling because there’s no real other path, beyond hailing another cab, and this isn’t exactly a busy street. 

The apartment he’s led into is a mess, but in a way he’s used to seeing, shoes all over the front, ajar doors everywhere, a tangle of wires in front of the TV and only hockey related shit on the walls. David looks away from the framed gold medal, jaw tight. “So this is home,” Lourdes says, awkward, then, “I’m just chilling with Goldman for the year, he usually takes in rookies. I figure I’ll get somewhere new next year.”

“I don’t care,” David says, flat, because it’s just a fucking back-drop, and Lourdes’ shoulders sort of hunch, threatening, the kind of thing that would make David brace himself for a hit, then drop, defeated.

“Do you want a drink?” he asks, after a pause, like he’s waiting for something. “We should still have beer, and we’ve got Red Bull and Gatorade and shit.”

“Can we just go to your room?” David asks. If Lourdes keeps offering him outs he’s going to take one, practically shaking with nerves by now, not that he’s letting it show, at least he hopes not. Wonders if that’s Lourdes’ plan or something. 

“Yeah,” Lourdes says. “Cool. Just--wait a sec, I need to be sure it’s clean.”

David stands stranded in the front hall when Lourdes disappears, almost wishes he’d accepted a drink so he’d have had something to do with his hands, palms sweating, tie too tight against his throat, choking, wondering, dimly, absurdly, if Lourdes had booked it out a back window or something.

Lourdes comes back after a fairly extended time, changed into jeans and a t-shirt, which makes David feel even more awkward in his game day suit. “Sorry, dude,” he says. “Room was a mess.”

David wants to point out he’s not Lourdes’ dude, he’d never be Lourdes’ ‘dude’ in his fucking life, but that’s probably pretty self-defeating right now, so he half smiles, face a rictus of forced amusement, which Lourdes blanches at. 

“Uh, come in?” he says, and David follows him into a room that’s still sort of a mess, bed half-heartedly made, shit on the floor moved to a corner, drawers half-open. Lourdes is looking at him a little hopefully, and David can’t meet his eye, can’t even think of it, not when they’re sitting on a bed that’s been sloppily made, maybe half a metre between them, max, because Lourdes apparently spreads his legs wherever he goes. Not when Lourdes made his bed in the hopes of getting laid, or gay-bashing, or who fucking knows, maybe both.

“Mi casa es su casa,” Lourdes says, and David gives him a blank look, which Lourdes ignores, reaching in to curve a hand around David’s jaw, mouth brushing David’s again, lingering, longer than the first time, which had felt like forever, David’s heart was in his throat. David can’t help the way his eyes flutter shut then, overwhelmed by the way Lourdes’ tongue slides, slick, into his mouth, more obscene than anything he’s ever experienced, one hand holding David still, firm against his jaw, the other nudging lower, where David’s dress shirt is tucked into his pants, a ticklish spot he’s learned to shield. He grabs Lourdes’ hand before it can get anywhere that’ll embarrass him, but doesn’t stop it when it curves around the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his curls, David’s breath hitching, when Lourdes fucks his tongue into his mouth like he’d prefer it was his cock in David’s throat. Lourdes kisses him like he’s done it before, not that David would necessarily know the difference, but he thinks he knows this, that the way Lourdes kisses him is practiced, easy as a drill done a hundred times over, while it’s all David can do to keep up. 

Lourdes’ hands find the buttons of his shirt, blind, and it’s too much, Lourdes’ fingers brushing against his stomach where he’s revealed skin, David sucking in breath as best he can, Lourdes’ hands up at David’s throat, which David wants to shrink away from, but manages to stop himself, lets Lourdes tug his tie free, get the last buttons undone, before he’s pushing David’s shirt from his shoulders, and David’s more naked than this around guys every single day, but right now he feels it, skin prickling despite the warmth of the room, ducking his head when Lourdes pulls back to look at him.

“Can I blow you?” Lourdes asks, and David’s head snaps up. He doesn’t look like he’s teasing or anything, eyes half lidded, mouth wet and pink, straining the front of his jeans when David can’t stop himself from looking down, gauging interest, knows from bitter experience that’s one thing that tends to betray a guy.

“Um,” David says, and Lourdes must take that as a yes. David’s not actually going to argue, this is one thing he really doesn’t want to argue, Lourdes’ hands on his belt, Lourdes hair falling into his face when David lifts his hips, his fingers curled into David’s briefs, tugging them down, before he just leans down and takes David in, one hand steady around the base of his cock, no hesitation, mouth hot and slick and overwhelming, just taking it when David’s hips shift up without his permission, face hidden behind the fall of his hair, and David wants to see it, even if he doesn’t know why, tucks Lourdes’ hair behind his ear with an unsteady hand, closing his eyes when Lourdes glances up at him, even if that just makes everything feel like more. 

Lourdes has done this too, there’s no way he hasn’t, no hesitation, no fumbling, so he’s either done it or he’s a fucking prodigy at this too, and it pisses David off, he’s hot all over, chest tight, because Lourdes managed even this before David did, all firm steady suction, and when David pushes up, he doesn’t stop him, doesn’t gag, just takes it, makes a noise around him like he _wants_ it, wants David to fuck his throat. David doesn’t want to give him anything that he wants, but he wants to fuck him more than he wants to fuck him over right now, so he shoves into the heat of his mouth, into his throat, pulls back only to come against his tongue, and Lourdes just takes that too, swallowing around him, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand when David shoves him off after a few seconds, oversensitive.

David may not want to give him anything he wants, but he doesn’t want Lourdes beating him in this either, and he wants him in his mouth, wants to taste him, so he ends up cradled between Lourdes’ thighs, breathless, Lourdes heavy, thick, stretching his mouth wide, can’t manage to take him as deep as Lourdes took him and hates that, but he does the best he can, sucks him viciously, if you could give a vicious blowjob, trying to tear sound out of him, and Lourdes is vocal, way more than David was, a hand tangled in his own hair and his thighs shaking against David’s shoulders, and there’s a grim satisfaction at how quickly Lourdes comes undone, breathlessly warning David, which David ignores, then coming hot, bitter against his tongue, David swallowing around him, Lourdes completely surrounding him like that, the taste of him, the warmth of his thighs bracketing David, fingers reaching down and brushing at the corner of David’s mouth, coming away slick.

David pulls back, sitting up, the taste of Lourdes lingering on his tongue, watches Lourdes catch his breath, cock spent against his thigh, flushed from his cheeks down, and it fucking figures that he’d look good like that, panting like he just finished a hard shift, lips red from being stretched around David’s cock. He stares, and then he realises how that must look, him just sitting there watching Lourdes as he comes down, so he reaches for his briefs, still tangled in his pants, gets up to put them on.

“Heading out?” Lourdes asks, voice gravelly, fucked out, and that sends another burst of heat through David, not angry, this time, just satisfied.

“Curfew,” David says, abrupt, even though it can’t be for awhile, and Lourdes definitely knows that.

“Cool,” Lourdes says anyway, sitting up, “see you in a month?”

David looks up from doing up his belt then, and Lourdes is grinning at him, almost fucking _bashful_ looking, and fuck this guy, David isn’t going to just fall at his feet, does he seriously expect to come to David’s home ice and fuck him on David’s turf? This was a mistake, that’s getting more and more clear as David puts himself back together, buttoning his shirt while Lourdes just lounges there, unabashedly naked, because he looks like a fucking centrefold and he knows it. This was a mistake, but he can’t really regret it, got his cock sucked by Lourdes and he isn’t going to forget it, but he has it out of his system now, can get back on the ice in a month and face him and hate him, pure and clean, and know that he’s managed to make him a panting, red-faced mess, and that it’s never going to happen again. Can get back to playing better hockey than him, and beat him that way, and know something about him he wouldn’t want getting out.

“Call you a cab?” Lourdes asks, when David’s put himself back together, Lourdes finally tugging his jeans on. 

“I’ll do it myself,” David says, and leaves Lourdes’ room without bothering to look back.

**Author's Note:**

> I am always available over on [tumblr](http://www.tumblr.com/blog/youcouldmakealife).


End file.
